


Pyramid Song

by ekbe_vile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, M/M, Rough Sex, bottom!Castiel, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbe_vile/pseuds/ekbe_vile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean mistrusts the quiet, and knows his loneliness for the weakness that it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyramid Song

Dean checks into a motel on the highway outside of Bakersfield, in a long stretch of beige and brown nothing, sun a cruel, unrelenting thing in the sky, air dry and hot and wind biting with sand. The building is short and flat, lying low to the ground like it’s waiting out a storm or an era. It has the look and feel of the 1930s, dust bowl depression relic with hope-colored wallpaper peeling in the corners of the room. The AC rattles to life, gives a puff of something stale and vaguely cool. Dean draws the blinds shut tight, salts the windows and chalks a devil’s trap under the door mat. He does things mechanically, out of habit––lets his body fall into the rhythm of memory, lets his thoughts drift away.

His cellphone lies on the table by the window, screen dark. He watches it from where he sits cross-legged in the center of the single bed, waiting for it to make its move. He doesn’t trust this long silence, doesn’t like how it keeps him tight and on edge. He remembers an indefinable stretch of time in Hell when Alistair just left him, when there was nothing, just the darkness and at first he was grateful for the respite but by the end he was near mad with anxiety, just waiting, waiting, waiting...

So now he mistrusts the quiet, and knows his loneliness for the weakness that it is. He thought he would be stronger, away from Sam––thought his brother was what made him soft, the chink in his armor––but hindsight has always been 20/20.

He’s across the room, phone in hand and pressed to his ear before he has a chance to think about it. He needs something to break the stillness, something to make this prickling anxiety give up its hold on him, something to make him feel _right_.

_Dean?_

Castiel’s voice on the other end of the line is low, somehow gruffer through the tinny speaker on the cell. He sounds thin, strained, out of breath––“Hey, Cas,” Dean says. “Are you busy?”

_Where are you?_

And it frightens Dean, sometimes, how Castiel will drop anything and everything for him, that no matter the hour, no matter the distance, if Dean calls, Castiel will come. He closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose, rattles off his location on the exhale. 

He doesn’t even get a chance to hang up before he hears the slice of incorporeal wings through the air. He turns and Castiel is right there, between him and the bed, shoulders slumped, face smudged with something black like oil, and blood, and there’s a red stain spreading fast across the front of his shirt.

“Shit, Cas––” Dean takes a step toward him, grabs his angel by the arm as though to steady him, but Castiel doesn’t so much as sway. Dean presses his hand to Castiel’s belly anyway, feels the blood coming hot and fast. He registers the jagged edge of torn flesh as he looks up at Castiel’s face. “Did I get ya at a bad time?”

Castiel shakes his head once. “I was just finishing up. Why did you call?”

_This is why,_ Dean thinks as he pushes his hands beneath Castiel’s coat, pushes it back and off his shoulders. “Was gonna get some beers, watch a movie,” he says easily. “Thought you might want to join me.”

He’s moved onto Castiel’s suit jacket, now, followed closely by the tie, but the angel is watching him with this narrow expression, the corners of his eyes pinched in concentration. “I see,” he says, and Dean shivers because he knows what that means, knows that Castiel can read him like a corpse on an autopsy table.

Dean works open the buttons on Castiel’s blood soaked shirt, biting his lip as the angel provides no resistance, pushes his shoulders back to allow Dean to maneuver the material down and off his arms. “Is that, uh––” Dean tips his chin toward the open gash in Castiel’s abdomen. The bleeding seems to have stopped, at least, but the wound looks angry. 

“It will close shortly,” Castiel assures him, but the edge is back in his voice, that awful uncertainty Dean recognized back in Maine when Castiel admitted that he most likely would not survive their interview with Raphael. 

Dean studies the wound, watches as the edges seem to darken, seem to reach toward each other, little fibers branching out like frost on a window pane. He has the sudden urge to touch it––something part curiosity, part lingering perversity of Hell. He wants to push his fingers into the wound, wants to feel the flesh seal around his hand, wonders what would happen when he pulled out.

Castiel turns his head to the side, his eyes skirting the edges of the room in a deliberate effort to avoid Dean’s gaze.

Dean shakes himself, grabs Castiel by the arm. “Come on,” he says, guides the angel toward the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up while we’re waiting.”

The bathroom is small, the shower stall barely large enough to fit one person. There’s a mirror across from it, and the water-stained glass door hides nothing. Dean thinks it would be weird, watching himself in the shower, like watching himself masturbate, something unsettling, a kind of naked deeper than bare skin.

He reaches into the shower, starts the water running.

Castiel watches his reflection, too still, too steady, like he sees more in the glass than in the flesh.

Dean pretends he doesn’t notice, grabs a wash cloth and hangs it on the rail. He casts a sideways glance at Castiel––sees the wound has closed tighter, but the blood and dirt remain, dramatic smears over an otherwise smooth canvas. “You’re going to want to take the rest of your clothes off,” he says, drops to one knee so that he can search in the cabinet under the sink and avoid the angel’s stare.

“Dean.” Castiel’s hand falls to his shoulder, fits over the scar.

He freezes.

The hand on his shoulder slides up the curve of his neck, bunching his tee shirt. Long fingers cut paths through his hair, curl at the nape of his neck, cupping far too gently as Castiel rubs his thumb into the patch of skin just in front of Dean’s ear.

He closes his eyes, allows the touch to flood his senses for what it is––turns his head to nuzzle into Castiel’s palm, to lay kisses down his life line to his wrist where human blood pumps through human arteries, pulse racing now with human desire.

“Dean.” Castiel’s other hand moves to the side of his face, rests there soft and feather-light, turning the hunter’s gaze up to meet his. And Castiel’s eyes are blue––bluer than human, illuminated from within––and Dean thinks no matter how far the angel falls, he will always have the light of Heaven inside.

Dean grabs the angel by too slender hips, lurches forward to bury his face in Castiel’s crotch. The angel exhales, sways on his feet but Dean holds on tight as he mouths at the bloodstained front of Castiel’s slacks, at the warm bulge between his legs, _wanting_ and _needing_ and every other painful, vulnerable feeling he dare not embrace.

One hand moves from Castiel’s hip to unbuckle his belt, to slide the single button through its hole, to work the zipper down. Dean cannot bear to be alone in his own skin––he wants to wash himself in Castiel, tastes blood and the beginnings of desire as he works the angel’s cock out of plain black briefs. And Castiel makes a soft, startled noise when Dean closes his mouth over the length of rigid flesh, sucks it down fast and hard until his nose presses against Castiel’s belly. 

And the pressure urges fresh blood to the surface, spilling over the raw edge of the wound, trickling down around Dean’s mouth. He pulls back––licks and nuzzles––smears his fingers through it, painting Castiel’s abdomen, fingers pushing up toward the lip of the wound, caressing the tender new flesh where Castiel’s grace is healing him.

Castiel shudders, leans back and hits the shower door––skin pressing against already steam-clouded glass, fingers twisting in Dean’s hair, murmuring the hunter’s name like a prayer. Dean stares up the lean length of the angel’s body, watches as a bead of condensation forms in the dip of his collarbone.

Dean pushes himself up from his knees, his arms winding tight around Castiel’s waist. He bends his neck, sucks the little drops of moisture from Castiel’s clavicle, lingers, tracing the curve of bone with the tip of his tongue.

Then he’s pushing away, stepping back so that he can tear his tee shirt over his head, briefly blinded by the stretch of cotton. And when it’s off, when he can see again, he catches Castiel staring at him, lips parted, chest heaving with short, desperate breaths. The angel’s blue eyes are blown black and misty with desire, and the sight utterly ruins Dean. He all but attacks Castiel, hips slamming together in a frantic grind, fingers fisting in perpetually sleep-tosseled hair as he crushes their mouths together.

Castiel groans, rising up to meet Dean, nails dragging hard down his back, hands squeezing between them to open Dean’s belt and shove his jeans down. Dean steps back just enough to kick out of his pants, and Castiel follows his example, stumbling a little in the cramped bathroom. Dean grabs his arm, steadying as the angel toes out of his shoes. And Castiel barely has them off, has only a moment to register the slick, cool feel of tile beneath his bare feet before Dean is pushing him backwards into the shower.

The water is hot, the air wet and heavy with steam and Castiel gasps as it all hits him, hunches his shoulders and ducks his head to hide his face against Dean’s chest as the hunter steps in beside him. It’s _tight_ and _wet_ and _hot_ and dirt and blood are streaming off Castiel’s body, swirling around his feet before disappearing down the drain. 

And Dean loves the way that Castiel flinches and trembles at the unfamiliar sensations pelting his body, loves the way the angel presses so close to him. Dean circles his arms around Castiel, hands now sliding smooth and easy over water-slick skin, testing the shape and feel of lean muscle under pale flesh. And Castiel is fucking rubbing his cock against Dean’s hip, is whimpering and tossing his head and little droplets fly from the tips of dark hair.

And if Dean turns Castiel around and shoves him up against the shower wall hard enough to knock the wind out of a normal person, he figures the half-healed wound on Castiel’s belly means there’s still enough angel left to make it okay. Castiel grunts, hands coming up to brace against the wall, head turned to the side, cheek smooshed flat against the tiles. “Dean,” he rasps, arches back, rubbing against the hunter in a way that is so filthy and wanton Dean can’t help himself, thrusts forward mindlessly, lips falling to the curve of Castiel’s shoulder, scraping skin with teeth.

And while one hand fumbles for some sort of lubricant, maybe the little complementary bottle of conditioner next to the soap, the other one is sliding down Castiel’s chest, sliding over his taut belly, down further to grasp and pull at the angel’s cock. Castiel throws his head back, tries to buck into the touch, but Dean holds him in place with an arm over those narrow hips.

Dean’s finally got a hold of the conditioner, pops the cap with his thumb and it’s hard with the water streaming down on them, catching on his eyelashes and washing away the soap with the blood and dirt. But he gets his fingers good and slippery, and then he’s kicking Castiel’s legs open wider, standing between them and he just slides his fingers down the sharp ridge of his spine, down and down following the curve of his tailbone, down between firm round cheeks and when he finally brushes Castiel’s hole the angel twitches and squirms and makes an eager sound.

Dean’s knees wobble and threaten to give out beneath him when he pushes his first finger inside Castiel. It’s like dipping his hand in molten lead, like desert-hot quick sand that pulls him deeper and won’t ever let go. And the way Castiel is whimpering and wiggling his hips, lifting himself onto his toes and pushing back onto Dean’s hand, Dean knows he doesn’t have to take his time. He works the second finger in, twisting and scissoring and _crooking_ in a way that makes Castiel bite down on his lip, bite down on a groan.

That barely stifled sound sends a delicious shudder rushing through Dean, a wave of warmth that ripples outwards from his cock and he never realized how badly he needs this, needs to be inside Castiel. Muscles clench and drag down on his fingers as he pulls them out and God he wants that feeling on his cock––grabs Castiel’s hip once his hand is free––lines up and sinks in.

Castiel doesn’t make a sound, just takes a breath and shifts his weight, takes the head of Dean’s cock inside him. And Dean doesn’t pause, doesn’t give Castiel a chance to adjust, keeps pushing in because he knows his angel can take it. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean rasps, lays a few soft kisses along Castiel’s shoulder as he feels himself bottom out, balls flush against Castiel’s ass.

“Dean––”

That sound is almost a whine, as close to begging as Dean thinks Castiel will ever get. He circles his hips, teasing––grabs Castiel’s wrists and pins his hands to the shower wall––licks behind his angel’s ear, earning him a shudder and a low moan.

And when Dean turns his head to the side, he can see their reflection in the mirror––can watch his hips snap forward, pounding his cock inside Castiel, the force of each thrust lifting the angel up onto his tiptoes. And he can see the way Castiel’s cheek presses against the tiles, the way his lips part and drops of water hang from his eyelashes. And Dean doesn’t know how they got here, but as he buries his face in Castiel’s wet hair, he knows he never wants to leave.

He releases Castiel’s wrists, wraps his arms around the angel’s waist and holds him steady. Dean fucks deep into Castiel, not bothering to pull out all the way, just reaching, reaching like he could crawl inside. And he’s out of breath, so high it must be altitude sickness, watching Castiel’s fingers curl and flex against the tiles. “Dean,” the angel gasps, “please, I need...”

He doesn’t have to finish––Dean wraps his hand around Castiel’s cock and strokes, keeping time with his own thrusts that grow ever faster, jackhammering in and out. And Dean’s other hand brushes over the wound on the angel’s stomach, presses down on the thin membrane of new flesh and it’s so soft, so hot, he can feel the blood pulsing underneath.

Castiel’s voice is a low rumble, deep resonance vibrating in Dean’s chest. “Do it,” he says. “You’re allowed.”

Later, Dean will regret it, but right now he _wants_ and Castiel is giving him _permission_ ––he curls his fingers and digs them into the new tissue of the angel’s belly, presses down so hard his nails puncture the tender flesh. And there’s no blood, just that heat around his fingers, the throb of Castiel’s pulse, and the angel throws his head back and opens his mouth in a mute scream, come splattering the shower wall in front of him.

Castiel trusts him, and Dean trusts that he can’t hurt Castiel, not really, not like this. And as he pitches forward toward completion, every muscle tightening in the moments before his orgasm turns his entire body to jelly, he sees that Castiel is his constant, Castiel is steadfast, Castiel is his past, present and future.

He’s shaking in the aftermath, the water cooling around them, all the blood and dirt washed from Castiel’s body. Dean pulls back, lets the angel turn to face him. And looking down into Castiel’s too blue eyes, he thinks he should be ashamed, thinks he should make a joke or try to push the angel away. But he doesn’t––reaches around Castiel to turn off the water––brushes a kiss against his lover’s cheek. 

And when they’ve dried off, when Dean is dressed in a clean tee-shirt and sweats and Castiel is turning to go, Dean asks him to wait, and then to stay. 

Castiel hesitates, lips parted and head tilted to the side, before he finally nods.

Dean holds the blanket up and they slip into bed together, the AC now running full blast, too cold in the desert night. But Castiel is like a furnace beside Dean, and drifting off to sleep he thinks that if this is all right now, then maybe tomorrow will be all right, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on September 9th, 2010 at ekbe-vile.livejournal.com. Title from the Radiohead song. Takes place betwen 5.03 and 5.04.


End file.
